


Dark Nights With Small Comforts

by threnodyjones



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threnodyjones/pseuds/threnodyjones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder working through a profile; too little sleep, too late at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Nights With Small Comforts

_Five hundred fourteen. Five hundred fifteen. Five hundred sixteen_.

Mulder breathed deeply, watching the unearthly glow of his television set flicker as the actors moved about their stage. In the background he could hear the burble of his fishtank, fancied he could hear the fish swimming around, back and forth in their contained, meaningless little existences. Lives of random creatures with no concept of the future, or the fact that they could be snuffed out of life on the whim of... anyone.

He sat in the almost-silence, tapping his pencil on a fresh, blank piece of notepad that was waiting to become, waiting to be filled with the insights which would be used to track down, to capture, to _know_ this latest killer. He paid attention to nothing, staring blankly through prescription glasses that were stronger this year than last, staring and letting his mind follow convolution, after twist, after fold which would then lead him to the essence of hate in this man. His brain worked feverishly, jumping at the right moment, turning here and then there, finding the truths that would twist his stomach if he ever thought too long about what he spent too long thinking on.

He stopped breathing, just for a moment, just long enough to bring him out of his trance. It was all he needed at this moment to remind him that there was a world (such as it was, he scoffed silently) around him.

The moon was waning, a near perfect crescent, and Mulder was sure that the dew was hanging heavily in the air at this moment. It was the right time of night. Time... That was something else. The time the victims were killed. Something to do with the time.

Sighing, Mulder threw his pencil down with a clatter, then taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He winced at the pressure behind his temples, and felt the tension radiate through his jaws and down his back to settle in his lower spine. _Perfect. We can now add tension headaches to the multitude of work related illnesses._

He picked up his cell and dialed seven easy numbers, listening to the phone ring. Each hypnotic ring seemed to disassociate him further from reality, dragging him back into the mind of the killer as his overactive brain kept processing and digesting the fragments of information. _Who was this person? What demon was living inside him? Let me know this demon, that I might know this man._

"...ello? Hello?"

He hit a plastic button, powering down the phone. He couldn't talk to anyone. Not now, not when he was so close to understanding. He stood, following through on the compulsion which drove him deeper into this person's mind. He needed more to understand, to see the darkness which he could reflect in his own soul to see the twisted image of what he sought. It always drove him back to the crime scenes, back to where the killer had left an indelible imprint of his tortured psyche for Mulder to absorb into himself as he put together, piece by jagged-edged piece, a four-dimensional puzzle.

An abandoned warehouse was the only trace the BSU and VCS had found as a link to the killer. Earlier Mulder had told them to look for at least two more locations. They would be similar to this warehouse, but not warehouses. The killer liked this place. Felt calm here. He chose the sites of his sacrifices (sacrifices?) by how they made him feel.

Mulder looked around the dark building. He could hear the cutting rustle of cockroaches as they moved across the floor, smell the mildew in the air. Behind a stack of ancient crates was where the killer had made his home, bed, lair, den. Dried blood painted the wood closest to a large pile of hay, the place where the victims had been left to die while their blood was being drained from their bodies and anointed to the rough, splintery canvas.

Mulder blinked. The dust markings on the floor marked where the crates had stood before being taken away for forensic analysis and evidence. Only a remnant of the hay was left on the ground, the few scraps which had also been taken away by Federal agents earlier. He walked into the circle, standing in it, trying to understand, and then he bent down, touched the ground, trying to recapture the sensation he had felt when he had first entered the building. It had been the same feeling the killer had felt.

A noise came from behind him. Whirling, his gun was out without thought or recognition.

"Federal Agent! Step out with your hands up, _now_!" The shadow his gun was trained on moved slowly, stepping into a sliver of light from the street. "What are you doing here?" Shocked recognition laced his voice as Skinner walked closer. Skinner looked around the warehouse, taking it all in, before his eyes settled on Mulder.

"What are you?" he asked neutrally. As though he didn't know.

"I woke you, didn't I?" Skinner nodded. "Sorry."

"Was there something you wanted to discuss, Mulder?" Skinner's voice was purely professional, even though his clothing was not. Leather jackets and baseball caps tended not to be regulation.

"No, I..." Mulder turned away, back to his killer. "I was thinking about this profile I'm working on. I couldn't catch him ten years ago because I wasn't willing to look deeply enough at this sick bastard. I could never paint a picture of him, never... _see_ him." Mulder was quiet for a moment, staring at the straws of hay that littered the ground. He could have gone on, but his brain decided that it wanted silence now, silence to keeping working.

"Mulder, when was the last time you slept?" No, don't talk now. The silence is so sweet. Makes it so much easier to hear the whimpers as they fade away, and it makes the eyes _so_ much more appealing to look at as they widen, right before any light left in them disappears and the air left in their lungs escapes in a final draft, pressed out by the pressure of the sky bearing down on them. So beautiful.

"Mulder!" A pair of hands grabbed him and shook him. He looked into Skinner's eyes, startled, and saw irritation, annoyance, and worry. "Come on, I'm getting you home for some rest. That's an order." It was interesting how much he had learned to pay attention to Skinner's voice over the years. His voice was always intense, nothing ever changed the intensity of Skinner. But when he was honestly worried, it would get quieter, deeper, and so more gravelly, like it was now.

"Just a few more minutes. I want to look around this place right now. In the middle of the night. It's important to him. I want to why." Skinner held his gaze, refusing to look away, accessing Mulder's mental state. He became more protective of Mulder whenever he was called in by the BSU. Really, his first superior who ever gave a damn, or realized just how destabilizing the profiles he worked on could get. How damaging they could be.

It was a nice balance for once. Mulder had something, someone, who he could connect with who pushed him to get the job done, but not at the cost of losing his own soul, as every AD and section head had done to him before. At times though Skinner could be overprotective, though it was hard to blame him. But even Scully wasn't as protective as he over these profiles. But Scully had a trust in Mulder not to go too far that Skinner lacked, the same trust that Mulder had in Skinner which Scully lacked.

"I'm fine," he said finally, when Skinner didn't look like he would let him stay here. Ah, finally! Skinner nodded and backed away a bit, into the shadows once more, letting Mulder work, keeping a watchful, but unobtrusive vigil.

He lost track of time, mulling around the now empty building. It really was easy to do. But finally there came a moment when he turned around and realized that this place could give him nothing else, and that there was still someone waiting for him in the background, patiently. Skinner stepped closer when Mulder looked directly at him.

"Finished?" Mulder nodded, feeling no need to wake his vocal cords to do something as mundane as speaking. Skinner drew up next to him, and they fell in step with one another, walking to their cars.

However, making it to the car, and driving safely home were two vastly different things. He rested his head on the roof of the car, not et willing to open the door and slide behind the wheel.

"Are you okay, Mulder?" He turned and saw Skinner standing by the hood of his car, only a few steps away.

"I'm done, I'm finished, I can't drive home."

"Seeing spots and waves?"

"Little grey kittens, actually." Skinner looked like he would chuckle. Instead he stepped forward, grasping Mulder's elbow and steering him towards his car, with the gruff words, "Come on, let's get you to bed."

He almost made a smart comment, but he didn't really feel quite up to it, and then too soon the moment was passed. It was quiet in the car, too much so, and he reached out to flip on the radio, punching the buttons to the classic rock station. He leaned back and closed his eyes, relaxing into the fuzzy tan car seat.

A _click_ and the silence was back.

"I was listening to that."

"You keep listening to that and you'll fall asleep, and I am _not_ dragging your ass into a bed."

"If I don't listen to _that_ then I'll slip back into his mind and fall asleep anyway. Your call, Sir." There was a pause during which Skinner looked at him, assessing his words, probably seeing his fatigue, and then the music _clicked_ back on again.

Skinner was right, he did fall asleep. Well, into a light doze, one of those where you know that you should stay awake, but it is too much of a temptation to slip into Morpheus' fuzzy haze at the threshold of the dreaming; the place where dreams and reality blur into faux memories and bastard visions of the truth. Mulder hated it with the passion he usually reserved for finding his sister, because they were inextricably linked together, tied and bound with steel chains that would never corrode. His memories always found their way to the surface of his thoughts during these dozing times wrenching every emotion in the gamut until he was woken by force or finally slipped into the blessed oblivion of a deep sleep brought on by exhaustion.

And this time was no exception, the music in the background not succeeding in distracting the mind from turning inwards to the demons held within. Remembrances flew from hiding places locked during daylight hours to flit along the edges of consciousness, and with the dozing they became more than memories, more than night phantasms come to torment him. Dozing was the mind's equivalent of the Japanese _torii_ , melding thoughts with the sensory information still being processed, creating for him a living Hell which he couldn't escape from.

Tonight his father made an appearance, deciding that it was time to ridicule him for his lack of process in this case, for putting off this case for 10 years, 10 years in which more people died. In his classic, well modulated down-tones his father's words spanning 2 decades came to mind. Had his father ever had kind words for him? He couldn't remember anything in these hazy moments but the disapproval that had always been present when Mulder had done anything, no matter how decent or good a job. If it had a flaw, his father would find it and point it out with all due haste, recriminations falling on young ears looking for any kind of paternal warmth. If it had been completed perfectly, then it had taken too long. If it had been completed with time to spare, then why hadn't improvements been made?

And certainly this case would have drawn ridiculing waves emanating from Bill Mulder, and that slight pull of his brows, the pursing of the lips and accompanying frown. Mulder's stomach clenched at the familiar feelings of shame. As a young, gangly teen he had spent more time looking at the carpet on the floor than he could properly remember, hiding his gaze from his father, listening to the lectures on how he must learn to push himself, discipline himself into a better person, else he would never become a person worthy of attention. If there had been one thing Bill Mulder had known, it was when a person pushed themselves, they could do anything, and if a person wasn't able to complete a task, or complete it well, then they weren't pushing themselves hard enough.

Just as Mulder didn't seem to be pushing himself hard enough on this case.

The slamming of a car door roused him to full consciousness. The car was at a temperature that was only a few seconds away from being uncomfortable, and when a rush of cold air accompanied his door opening, Mulder welcomed it, feeling the muscles of his face tighten in response to the sudden change.

Skinner didn't seem to trust him to voluntarily move from his seat, because soon one of Skinner's strong hands was around his biceps and pulling him out, though it wasn't rough or with any discernable emotion that Mulder could tell.

His foot landed on smooth cement, rather than the cracked sidewalk he had been expecting, and looking up he noticed for the first time that they were in the parking garage to Skinner's building. A silent groan ripped through Mulder's thoughts.

"You should have taken me back to my building. My notes on the case file are there," he said as he followed Skinner to the elevators. As Skinner punched the call button and the motors began to churn and whirl, he turned and replied.

"That's exactly why I brought you here. You've worked on the profile for long enough, and you're going to get at least 3 hours of sleep before going back to the office today if I have to tie you down to a bed and drug you, myself." The elevator doors opened, and Mulder felt his internal hobgoblin rise to the fore.

"Doesn't this count as kidnaping?" he asked, stepping into the small box.

"No, you came with voluntarily."

"I was sleeping, I didn't know any better."

"You asked for the ride."

"But I thought you were taking me back to my apartment."

Skinner laughed aloud. It was a rare treat for Mulder to hear, since Skinner rarely ever laughed, unless he spent a whole lot of time chortling when he was in complete solitude. God, no wonder Sharon had left him, if she had never been able to make him laugh, to crack that hard exterior. What a depressing scenario that would be to live in, with Skinner always as dour at home as he was in the office. And too close to home for Mulder, remembering all the silent and morose dinners his family had shared. At least Mulder had his unpredictability to fall back upon, guaranteed to draw laughter from somebody, even when it was unwanted. Of course, if it didn't draw laughter, his antics were guaranteed to really piss somebody off, royally.

"...and besides, your case would never stick." Mulder looked away from the closed silver doors of the elevator to look at Skinner.

"Why's that?" There was an air of hurt in the question as his mind raced, trying to figure out what Skinner had noticed, that Mulder hadn't. Damn, the game was still afoot, but now he was on the losing team.

"You've forgotten something very important, Agent Mulder."

 _Well, thank you very much, Sir. I wasn't aware of that yet._ Mulder scowled when he caught the laughter in Skinner's eyes. Damn, he was enjoying this too much. He still hadn't figured it out by the time the elevator deposited them on Skinner's floor. Mulder felt Skinner exit, and then a few moments later he returned and pulled an unnoticing Mulder out of the elevator too. He was several paces behind Skinner as he walked into the open door, shedding his overcoat and throwing it over the arm of a chair.

"Okay, I give up, what is it I'm missing?"

Skinner moved in close to him, leaning well into his personal body space. Mulder could feel soft, warm breath in his ear, and the smell of leather surrounded him. He stood still as the other man leaned in farther, and now the lingering scent of soap from Skinner's earlier shower filled his nostrils. He couldn't help but think of beautifully impure thoughts when Skinner was this close to him, think of feeling muscles forged by the Marines bunching and releasing under sweat-slicked skin. He could almost taste the salt in his pores, and the thought made his mouth tighten painfully, just before watering.

"You never asked me to take you home," came the whisper that froze his brain for a moment and then made his laugh. He could hear the fatigue in the laugh, and looked into Skinner's eyes.

"Guess my subconscious wanted sleep more than I realized," he replied, hoping Skinner would understand. He did, Mulder guessed, from the affection in his eyes. He gave Skinner a rather chaste kiss on his lips, and when it broke he smiled tiredly. Skinner shook his head and laughed, and with a swat on his rump he got Mulder moving.

"Go take a shower and come get some sleep." With a nod Mulder headed to the bathroom, while Skinner went to his bedroom. He pulled a rolled up set of towels from the linen closet, on his way in, and flipped on the light. The bathroom was the same as always, economical, tidy, and still it looked lived in, like it was the bathroom of a home, rather than one of the sterilized magazine bathrooms, those where if you dared to shit within you were desecrating a sacred place. But Skinner's, while tidy, was not altogether clean. It was... homey.

Absently hid eyes caught the clock on the wall, and noted the time. _Shit._ Skinner had to be up for work in less than two hours. Christ, and he had woken him up, and better yet, Skinner had driven out to get him. Feeling like beating his head against the wall, he instead decided to draw a bath, and attempt to leach out his brain cells through his pores. It was possible. He'd read about it once in the X-Files.

Settling into the overly hot water with unbelievably cold porcelain, Mulder savored the chance he was getting to take a nice, hot, restful bath. He never took baths at home, and never when in the field. In fact, the only time seemed to be when he was here. _Wonder if Skinner thinks it odd?_ But oh, it was _so_ nice to sink into the water and let the heat work its way into his tense muscles...

Mulder woke with a start. Bright, artificial yellow light was glaring into his eyes. He couldn't have been in here that long, since the water was still steaming. Bleary-eyed he glanced at the clock. Over 30 minutes had passed. Not so bad. Lethargically Mulder climbed out of the tub and toweled down, grumbling mentally at how the heat had sapped all strength from his body. Padding back to the linen closet he rummaged around until he found the spare set of sweats he kept here, and put them on.

In the dark he wandered back into the living room. Skinner was probably long since asleep, and there was a fresh notepad a side-table that was calling to him. Quietly he searched for a pencil and then settled onto the couch to make notes for the profile, forcing himself to stay awake and focus on the job. It was too easy to fall back into his profiling mode, and notes and thoughts quickly dotted the paper in his scrawly writing.

When his fingers began itching for sunflower seeds he stopped and got up, still looking at the notepad as he went to the kitchen to look for something to help alleviate his craving. He halted when he noticed Skinner watching him, arms folded, leaning against a wall partitioning the kitchen from the hallway to the bedroom.

"I didn't want to wake you," Mulder said quietly.

"I would be easier to do that if you weren't prowling around my livingroom at god-forsaken hours of the night."

"I had some more thoughts on the profile, thought I'd jot them down."

"Are they jotted?" Skinner's voice was very neutral sounding, which had Mulder more worried than if there were annoyance lacing his tones.

"Yes." Skinner's bare chest was beginning to distract him more than it should.

"Come on." Mulder obeyed for once, setting down the notepad and pencil on the counter and moving into Skinner's orbit. Waiting only to make certain Mulder was following, Skinner then turned and went back to the bedroom. As Mulder climbed into the bed, fatigue hit him like a brick to the head, and his head was irresistibly drawn to the pillow. He felt Skinner's arm go around his stomach, pulling him closer, and he fell back against the broad chest that would support him throughout the night.

They both adjusted themselves a few more times before finding that perfect position for the highest level of sleeping comfort. Skinner's breath soon leveled out into the slow, deep breaths of sleep, and his arm became a bit heavier on Mulder. Mind-blanking contentment filled Mulder. They didn't often get these moments together, when the world couldn't intrude and keep them from feeling comfort in each other. And it was the smallest moments of comfort which burned brighter in his memory than all the nights of lust they had shared, or would share, God willing. A word, a look, a presence, or a few hours together in bed, sleeping, before they would get up and travel to their respective jobs.

In the darkest nights of profiling, Mulder would sit back and know that Skinner wouldn't let things go too far. After Mostow, and in light of Patterson's breakdown, Skinner had always kept close watch on Mulder's mental health. In many ways it had been why he jumped down Mulder's throat so quickly with the Pincus mess. Skinner called it an affair. Mulder just liked the term "mess" to describe it all. It fit so well. But it had certainly given them both insights into his sanity. After Scully's final report to him, he had begun giving Mulder a bit more room to "tread the dark path". Mulder had had to do a lot of reassuring that his mind was more flexible to change and more durable than the average FBI agent. And Skinner had finally begun to listen, and trust Scully to help Mulder through the times when it was only the two of them and Mulder faulted in his belief in himself.

And for those times when Scully wasn't able to help, Skinner stood as a looming giant to buffet away worries for however long it took, letting Mulder's mind rest awhile, reorganizing and recouping from losses, before he would ventured out again and continued his crusade. Sometimes it would only take a few moments, a second or a minute, maybe a night, sometimes as long as a whole weekend. They'd never dared longer, and Mulder had never needed it, his spirit bouncing back with remarkable agility.

He knew Skinner quietly worried about the day Mulder's spirit stopped bouncing back from the seemingly endless assaults it took. But the day it stopped bouncing back was the day Mulder would find life not worth living. Without fire, life wasn't worth living. Mulder stretched his memory back, casting about to find exactly when he'd been told that, and by whom. His father...

Skinner stirred in his sleep, and Mulder froze, wondering if he'd moved. "Mulder, go to sleep, I need the rest." Mulder heard the smile in the voice, though the body was too tired to make it. Turning in Skinner's arms he pulled the blankets closer and wrapped his own arm about Skinner's waist.

"Night, Walter," he barely said.

A small grunt of acknowledgment was the only response he got before he fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday wish for Ann, who said that she wanted me to write something I'd never written before. The wench (that was meant lovingly, of course, Ann) insisted on something with Mulder after I told her that I doubted I'd ever write Mulder, since I didn't think I could get his character down. *sigh* Me and my oh so large masticating orifice. So here goes.


End file.
